


So you think you're slick? A real wise guy

by DropTheBeet



Series: Spideypool Bingo [3]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha!Wade, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Imprinting, M/M, Omega Verse, Scent Kink, Scenting, omega!Peter, slick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 12:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19463968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DropTheBeet/pseuds/DropTheBeet
Summary: Did this in a sprint on the Spideypool server. Short and sweet! Enjoy!





	So you think you're slick? A real wise guy

**Author's Note:**

> For Spideypool bingo slot: Slick

Peter was a beta. 

He was a beta, and he had been for 27 years now. 

So what in the holy _hell_ was going on?

It started as a normal night, on patrol, stopping some criminals, spreading general neighbourhood goodness, as he was wont to do. When in barrels this red _whirlwind_ with shiny blades and a bag full of Mexican food asking him to sign his katana. 

Deadpool, he’d said. The name rang a bell, somewhere deep in Peter’s hindbrain, but not enough for him to bother trying to recall. The guy seemed like a typical fan, apart from the latex and leather, huge amount of weapons, and the face he appeared outta nowhere 80 meters above ground. 

But, you know, apart from that. Nice guy, overly enthusiastic. Chatty. Shared his food after Peter carefully wrote his signature on the shiny metal in the Sharpie Deadpool (call me Wade) had provided. 

And the food was damn good too. 

Wade ended up being funny, managing to not only keep up with Peter’s quips, but to hit back some real zingers. He had a huge knowledge for pop and meme culture, although some sounded foreign, maybe an alternate universe like Miles? He turned morbid at a couple points, but soon seemed to cheer up at Peter’s cheesy attempts at jokes. 

It was nice. 

It was only as Peter went to swing away, he had to get up early to help Ned move, that the wind picked up some kind of scent. And Peter had just frozen, mid-sentence, feeling a little dizzy as that slight whiff buried him deep. 

It was kind of like the smell when you’d just lit a fire. The smell of summer hitting. The heat, maybe a little ash? And there were spices that didn’t quite hit what had been in the tacos. Under all that a kind of musky scent of tarmac after rain. The fresh scent of a storm finally breaking. 

He felt like he was swaying away on the wind when a large hand caught him, staring into the Deadpool mask as it squinted in concern. 

“So expressive,” Peter mumbled, still feeling lightheaded.

The eyes squinted up, Peter’s belly doing a little flip flop. _What? What the fuck was that?_

And then the scent was stronger, overpowering. But it gave off the feeling of… Pleased? How can something smell pleased? 

“You alright, baby boy?”

Peter shook off the hand, already mourning the loss and scowling at himself for it. “I’m nearly thirty, you can’t call me that.”

Wade snorted, “Okay, sugarpie. But really, you good? Looked like you were about to fall off the roof, there.”

Wade’s hands still hovered over Peter’s shoulders, Peter having to physically hold himself back from leaning into the heat radiating through into his suit. 

“Yeah, I’m good, I think. Just got a little dizzy.”

Wade hummed in thought, the smell of _safety, protection,_ filtering through Peter’s senses. “You need me to get you home, Spidey-babe?”

Peter shook his head, stepping back and _away_ from whatever the hell that smell was, stumbling a little only for Wade to grab his elbow. In a panic, Peter lashed out, punching Wade in the jaw. 

He yelped, hands fluttering as Wade’s head snapped to the side. The merc pushed his mask up, spitting a tooth to the floor, wiping the blood from his lip. 

“Shit! Wade, sorry! I just panicked-!”

Wade grinned, teeth white and canine wicked sharp, “Damn, my name sounds good when you say it.”

Peter blushed, heat spreading through his body as the comment registered, gaze fixed to those sharp, white teeth, and _God_ they’d feel so good in his throat-

Wait, what?

As he watched Wade’s tooth grew back in place, the man chuckling at Peter’s staring. “Healing factor. Pretty neat, huh? So no worries on you breaking me, baby boy. And it’s kinda been a personal goal to be hit in the face by you, so one less on the bucket list.”

Peter’s brain snagged on the idea of him being unable to _break_ Deadpool. It made his gut clench, his mouth run dry. His insides _ached_ and he needed… Shit. What was that?

Peter felt all the blood drain from his face as Wade’s relaxed and jokey posture suddenly jerked to attention, head cocked like a bloodhound on the trail of the hunt. 

Wade’s voice was a deep rumble that set Peter’s heart palpitating. “ What’s that smell-?”

Peter yelped, jumping back. “Bye Wade! Nice to meet you!” And jumping off the building to web home as fast as physics allowed. 

He panted as he tumbled through the window, yanking it down and locking it. He drew the blinds, ripping his mask off to clutch his throat, where his pulse raced wildly. 

He gulped, hand moving back to touch delicately at his ass. 

He flinched.

It was soaked through. Sodden.

He abruptly remembered all the awkward times in school when the Omegas in class would shuffle out, leaving a damp spot on the seat behind them. 

“What the fuck?” He squeaked, tugging off his suit. 

This couldn’t be right. It must be… Blood? But that was still bad. 

Was he dying? Did he need a doctor? But he hadn’t renewed his insurance yet. 

With the suit kicked to the corner, he stumbled to the bathroom, yanking the light on. He twisted in the mirror, parting his cheeks. 

Nope. That was a clear slick _oozing_ from his puckered hole, which flexed as Peter tensed. 

But this made no goddamn sense. 

He was a _beta._ He was _27 years old._ Almost _28,_ for god’s sake! What fresh hell was this?

People didn’t _present_ at 27. 

People didn’t present past the age of 16. 

He brushed his fingers over the hole, whimpering as that made his hole clench, the skin near-aching in need for a firmer touch. He pressed down experimentally, gasping at the feeling as his hole parted easily, drawing him in. 

He turned away from the mirror, removing his hand to stare wide-eyed at the thick, glossy slick now coating his fingers. He parted them, sickly fascinated as the goop stretched between his fingers. 

What the fuck would even had triggered it? 

I mean, he assumed the smell was Wade, and while he wasn’t used to being able to smell people so clearly, that still wouldn’t explain-

Peter paled, “Oh fuck. Oh no, no, no. Peter, you stupid idiot!”

Imprinting.

He’d heard of it. Of course he had. It was a romance cliche in most films, a gimmick. It wasn’t… Real? There were way too many people in the world, the chances of you finding the “perfect match” where slim to nil. 

But it made sense. How he could smell him, smell his moods.

That pleased scent-

Peter groaned as more slick dribbled out his hole in such volume, he could feel the tickling sensation of it rolling down his thigh. 

He hid his head in his hands. 

Presenting at 27, after imprinting on a mercenary. And a fucking _fan._

Typical Parker luck.


End file.
